


Unfolding

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Tender Increments [11]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, F/M, Medical Conditions, Pregnancy, Tarot, complicated feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-05 21:45:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16819069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: Erik and Christine have been together for nine years, but the comfortable life they've made for themselves is about to change forever.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tinder Date](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14372181) by [ponderinfrustration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration). 



He has never believed in the accuracy of tarot reading, in palmistry or divination of any sort. There’s no scientific basis to any of it, and the whole thing just makes him profoundly uncomfortable. The very thought of a deck of cards or the lines in his palm laying out his whole past and future is about equal parts terrifying and laughable.

But Christine is away in Galway at a conference, so she’ll never know. And besides, it is all Nadir’s idea, because they are bored and wandering and there is a festival on, and there’s something comforting abut being able to blame it all on him.

So Erik reluctantly agrees, and decides to consider it all a pile of bollocks anyway, even if they do tell him that he has less time left than he thinks. Which, well, whatever. He won’t panic unless the doctors tell him the same.

He has one swallow of whiskey from Nadir’s flask to brace himself — one of the very few drinks he ever has now — and, body and soul prepared for all sorts of terrible news, enters the tent.

And almost laughs, at the sight of the withered old woman in her silks. What sort of drama is this? Is it a set-up? Is someone trying to prank him? There’s probably a camera just around the corner waiting to catch his reaction.

Up close, the woman is a lot younger than he first took her for. He can recognise a good make-up job when he sees it. By now it would be a travesty if he didn’t, and there is something about seeing her so obviously faking her age that sets him at ease.

How real can any of this be, if the fortune-teller even looks like a fraud?

The first card she draws is Death. And all he can think is, _Lord, tell me something I don’t know_. And then she draws the Lovers, and he gives it no heed. Besides, he has Christine. There’s no one else he needs in his life. And finally, she draws the Empress.

The Empress.

He is almost surprised that it is a card he knows, and the sight of it catches him off-guard. The blessing of all musicians and writers and artists. A symbol of creativity, a good omen, if he believed in omens. Is he going to get a commission?

The fortune teller’s eyes meet his. “You’re a married man”

It is not a question. The hairs prickle on the back of his neck, and he almost gives her some credence, but then the light catches the wedding band on his finger and he realises, _of course she knows_.

He nods nonetheless. “For several years now.” Two years, eleven months, fifteen days, and about four hours. It’s engraved on his heart. Sometimes he thinks it has become part of his bones, as if it has been etched there, a constantly updating timer.

She smiles. “You may expect your family to grow in the near future.”

And never have mere words struck such fear into his heart. He stares at her, struck dumb, breath caught in his throat as she clears the cards away, then looks at him expectantly. “Your palm, please.”

* * *

After, his breath caught and heart beating something like normal, he asks Nadir what the fortune teller told him, and Nadir scoffs. “Longevity and wealth. The usual sort of shit. You?” And Erik nods, shrugs, as if the sweat is not cold on his skin. “The same.”

They head for the train, Nadir insisting he join he and Michelle for dinner, and Erik knows Christine has probably extracted a promise from them both to make sure he eats in her absence, so he sighs and agrees and resolves to put the whole thing from his mind.

Which is surprisingly easy. After all, the whole thing is rubbish and he has a stack of exam papers to mark, and some of the answers are enough to drive him up the wall. On one of the questions, where the students have to analyze Chopin’s nocturnes, one person simply wrote “George Sand was an imbecile.” He very nearly texts Nadir to bring over whiskey.

Christine comes home from Galway in a whirlwind of ideas, about dictatorship and economics and agriculture, and she kisses him lightly on the lips before shutting herself away in her study, muttering about Salazar. Three hours later she emerges, jaded at the sight of her own stack of exam papers.

Erik kisses her forehead and hands her a mug of tea. “I arranged them by module code for you, and then by number of pages, shortest to longest.” It took him an evening and a night to do, and at his words a soft smile spreads over her tired features, and she hugs him.

“The exam papers can wait until morning.”

They order pizza, and cuddle together on the couch to watch re-runs of _M*A*S*H_. And it doesn’t take long for Christine to doze off in his arms, worn out from her trip. He’d carry her to bed, but he has a scan next week and he doesn’t want to lift things until he knows for sure no aneurysm has developed since the last check. So he wakes her, gently, and walks her to bed. And then, though it’s only half nine, he turns off the lights and closes up the house for the night, and joins her, and thinks that at least this time he will honestly be able to tell his cardiologist that he is sleeping well. Then Christine nuzzles into him, her arm warm around his hip, and all thoughts disappear.

* * *

It is Nadir who goes with him up to Dublin for his appointment. Christine still has exam papers to mark, and Erik insists that she stay home and finish them off. It is not entirely altruistic of him. He knows there is some part of her that is relieved over not having to go. She always gets anxious at his appointments, even when she tries not to let it show, and it always makes him more anxious than he already is, which he emphatically does not need. She remembers too well the days that he doesn’t, when he was on a cocktail of medications after having surgery on his aorta only a few months before the wedding. Sometimes, at night, she traces the scar on his chest, and he knows she’s thinking of that, and the fear that he might have to go through it all again.

He can’t fault her for her anxiety.

He’s terrified of the same thing.

But when it’s Nadir with him, he’s full of stories about his law practice, and it’s enough to take Erik’s mind off all that could happen.

The scans are all clear, he learns later, and he’s passed with a clean bill of health for the next six months, and the relief is overwhelming. And oddly, incongruously, he remembers the tarot reader, Death sitting on the table before her, and has a moment of satisfaction at having defied the cards.

* * *

In the early days of March, it was nine years since they met, since the fateful night they matched on that app, and Nadir interceded to arrange the coffee date that he almost backed out of. But on 7 June, that magical day, it is three years since they married. Three years since they stood in that church, with his mother and Bill and Lilly and Uncle Al, and Nadir and Michelle and the trio of John Henry, Kate, and Morgan, and a small collection of Christine’s friends from the history society and Portugal, and some of his music department friends. A small quiet affair, and it was two of his violin students who played. He was still frail, still tired after the surgery only a few months earlier (and Christine would have delayed the wedding until he was stronger if he had let her, if he had not put his foot down and insisted that after two years of looking forward to it he was not putting it off any longer, so help him if Nadir had to prop him up he was going to be there), but later, in Carton House, he mustered the strength to take her for their first dance (his own composition, and one of his students played it on the piano, and after their honeymoon, he played it for her himself, in the quiet of the living room with the lights down low, and she kissed his cheek and murmured that she prefers it this way), and when that first dance ended, Uncle Al cut in on them, insisting on dancing with his new niece even as he gave Erik a warning look to take it easy. Al returned her to his arms after, and he danced with her several more times as the evening went on, in between sitting back nursing glasses of water (and one of champagne, just for the occasion), watching her dance and laugh and look so beautiful he was not certain it was not a dream. His mother saw the tears shining in his eyes, and come to sit beside him, squeezing his hand, and he was so overwhelmed he leaned into her as if he were a child again.

Three years. And his heart is still so full after all this time that even though he was planning to take her out for the occasion he does not think he could bear sharing her with other people.

They have a quiet dinner at home, by candlelight, and she wears the new dress she bought for this night, and he wears one of his tailored suits, a particularly fine one, and pairs it with a burgundy waistcoat that disguises his thinness. Not that there is much point in disguising his thinness, because Christine knows all about it, but it’s a boost to his esteem, and a man can always pretend.

Afterwards he plays for her, their wedding dance and a couple of new pieces that he has composed while she’s been busy, or in the hours he’s spent in university late in the evening. And she sings for him, and they take each other to bed.

They take precautions, as they always do, and Erik drifts off to sleep, content that everything is right in the world.

And for two weeks everything continues as it always does, quietly, slowly. With music, and a meeting about the semester beginning in September, and his supervisory work. The Digital Humanities head gets him in to talk about his own thesis from years ago to the stressed Masters students, and he takes part in a concert for the alumni, and Christine sings for it at his own request. And he looks at her up on that stage, and thinks about ghost lives, about the singer she could have been if her heart had not led her to history (and he wakes up grateful every morning for that passion burning inside of her), about the concert pianist he might have been if it had not been for his condition and his anxiety and craving for academia, and the way they might have travelled together. But this is the life they have, and it is peaceful, and far more comfortable than in his student days, and he would not give one second of it up for anything.

Then Christine comes to him, near the end of June, and she’s pale as she asks him to sit down, and his heart drops thinking that something might have happened, to Lilly or his mother, or even, heaven forbid it, to Nadir.

She must see his thoughts, because she shakes her head slightly, her lips tight. “It’s nothing like that.” And her voice is hoarse.

“Then what?”

She squeezes his hand, and takes a shuddering breath, and the world slows down, narrows in to this point, this moment right here. “I’m pregnant.”


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some consideration of abortion in this chapter

_“Well, some day you’re going to want to start a family.” The look Al gives him when he opens his mouth to protest is ten thousand shades of_ don’t question me, I’m much older and wiser than you. _“And when that day comes, you’re going to want to live somewhere bigger than an apartment the size of a cardboard box. Maybe even with a garden. Certainly more than one bed. So. It is my duty as your godfather, to ensure you’ll be able to do so.” He flashes a smile, though his eyes are still serious, and it’s all Erik can do to manage a twitch of his lips. “Besides, what else am I going to do? Milk cows until the day I drop dead under them and saddle you with a farm down the west that you don’t want? That would be terribly selfish of me. No. I’m not getting any younger, and I’d be far happier to see you well set up. And if you don’t take the money, I’ll just talk to your dear Christine about it. I’m sure she’ll agree it is the only sensible thing to do.”_

_He acquiesces. Acquiesces only because between Al and Christine and his mother the three of them would wear him down, and that’s without Nadir hearing about it. And if it would make them happier for him to have this money, to have this money and a house from it and be able to give Christine some security, then he can deal with the guilt, can deal with the twisting thoughts that Al has given up his cows and his land for his sake and his sake alone. “And what about you?”_

_Another smile, one that reaches his eyes this time. “I’ve kept ten acres, just to have. And I think I will take up dancing.”_

The memory fades, brings him back to the present. How long he has sat here, staring at Christine, barely breathing, he does not know. It is as if time itself has called a halt, as if all of the hands on all of the clocks in the world have simply ceased to tick. He is groping to understand the words, to parse them. Logically he understands them, what they mean, but their resonance, their weight in his mind, how they came haltingly off her tongue… _I’m pregnant…I’m pregnant…_ but how? How could she be? They always use protection. He always uses a condom. He’s fanatic about it! And with how well they know each other’s bodies, it is so rare that things do go _in that particular direction_ that they have several lines of defence ready, especially to keep them from this situation.

How could it happen?

Oh he has a pretty good idea how it _physically_ happened, but it wasn’t—this wasn’t supposed to be the outcome! This wasn’t ever supposed to be the outcome!

Could it have been their anniversary? No, he was doubly careful that night. He’s always more careful after a scan, that forced reminder of his condition and the risks inherent in it terrifying him into caution.

Surely only a minute has passed, maybe two, but it feels like it’s been years since he took a full breath when he gasps, and Christine’s hand is still tight around his, waiting for his answer, bottom lip worried between her teeth.

“How—how long?” His voice is hushed, as if it’s news of cancer or a bomb or minutes to the apocalypse and not—not a new life, not a _baby._

Oh, Christ she’s having a baby.

The room sways for a second before he gasps another breath, and he blinks hard, trying to clear his mind, to focus on her.

Her voice is hushed. “Two months.” Two _months._ And she’s only telling him _now._

“Why did you not—”

“I didn’t know!” She lets go of his hand and stands, scrubbing her hair. “I didn’t! I thought it was just because I was so busy, with the conference and correcting the papers and worrying about your scans, and then I still didn’t get it this month either and I decided on a whim I’d do the test. Just for the sake of it! So I did it this morning, and it’s got a screen that tells you how far along you are. And I thought it must have been faulty so I did another one, and another one, and then I went to the doctor and she told me that the result was right, that sometimes these things happen.”

She’s crying, the tears running down her face, and he should go to her, he should, should take her in his arms and tell her that it’ll be all right but he can’t, he can’t, he’s powerless to do anything except stand and drift towards the door, the room suddenly too small.

He needs air. Needs to get out. Needs to _move_. The walls are closing in on him. He needs to get out, needs to go, needs to—

She’s going to have a baby. His baby.

“Where are you going?”

His hand hovers over the handle of the door. “I—” where? Where _is_ he going? Anywhere, away from here, away from _this._ “A walk. I need a walk.”

“It’s lashing out!”

Lashing? He could laugh. What has rain got to do with anything? She’s pregnant with his baby even though they both agreed they wouldn’t let that happen! What does rain matter in the face of that?

Still. He reaches over and plucks his coat off the rack, a concession to the weather, and throws it on.

The door clicks shut behind him, but that little click echoes worse than a bang.

It’s cold for late June, the rain bringing a chill, but the chill air whistling through his nose clears his head, kicks his thoughts into order. Christine is pregnant. Two months pregnant. Eight weeks. Fifty-six days, give or take. Fifty-six days that a baby has lived inside her, unbeknownst to them.

It’s not too late. Eight weeks is under twelve weeks. They can still do something about it, can solve this. She can have an abortion, no questions asked. Hey presto, pregnancy finito. All she’d need is a doctor’s cert to say she wants one, then take a pill and there, the whole thing, over and done with.

She would never go for it.

He knows that, doesn’t even have to doubt it. Nauseous guilt twists inside him, and deep down he knows that he couldn’t do it either. It’s their baby. _Theirs_. The both of them combined, and he could never ask it of her to do that, could never ever want her to do that.

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until he tastes the salt water of a tear caught at the edge of his mouth, and some tiny part of him is grateful to the rain for hiding it.

Fresh thoughts hit him like a wave, like a punch to his chest. Why did he run out? Why did he leave? Why did he not take her in his arms and tell her he loves her? He’s a useless fool. A _stupid_ bastard and now she’s going to hate him for leaving and she’ll have every right to and he could never blame her for that, never. It’s his fault, his fault they’re in this mess, his fault if she hates him for leaving, hates him for getting her pregnant.

And what if the baby is like him? What if it has his condition? There’s a fifty-percent chance of it, he knows that. A fifty-percent chance of a boy or a girl, and a fifth-percent chance of having his problem. Of having a face that’s so deformed he has to hide it with make-up, with a mask! (And distantly he realises he’s not wearing either right now, didn’t bother with either when he wasn’t planning to leave the house and panic flares in his chest because what if someone recognizes him? What if someone sees the fissures he’s always hidden so well? They’ll laugh at him! Students will come to his lectures just to gawk! They’ll never take him seriously, they’ll start failing, he’ll lose his job and never get another and he won’t be able to support Christine, to do anything in any way, oh God oh fuck he’s such an idiot, and he pulls his collar high to try and shield some of the worst of it, and dares not raise his head, and prays the rain is enough to distract everyone from looking at him.)

And it’s not just the face. The face is the least of it, it’s the rest of it that’s the problem. The pain. The way his joints ache all the time. All the scans and the medications and the fear that in spite of it all at any second something could just give way inside of him. The stabbing pain and tightness in his chest when his lung collapsed and he couldn’t breathe and black dots danced before his eyes as he gasped. The odd pangs in his sternum as if it remembers the scalpels and the bone saw whirring through it and the staples holding him together and though he knew, statistically, it was always more likely that he would survive the surgery, that something so major, so dramatic, was as safe as it could be, there was still the chance that he might not have woken up again, that something could have gone wrong, a haemorrhage or a clot, that when Christine squeezed his hand and kissed his forehead before she had to leave really would be the last time in spite of all her promises. How could he inflict all of that on a child? A stretching future of that? It’s an act of cruelty! It’s torture! He’s a monster for even risking passing that on, for condemning an innocent baby to spend its life dealing with what he’s gone through!

He stops in front of Nadir’s door, and doesn’t remember even deciding to come here. Doesn’t know how his feet led him here. A crack of thunder in the distance makes him shiver and he’s cold, suddenly so so cold, cold to his very bones, and he raises his hand and presses his finger to the bell, as if he is watching somebody else do it.

There are only vague impressions, of Nadir bundling him in, stripping off his soaking wet coat and wrapping him in a blanket, settling him on the couch, the warmth of a mug of tea in his hand and faint sharpness of added whiskey, the bone-deep shivering that sets in, his teeth chattering, fresh tears spilling down his face and Nadir eases the mug from his hands, rubs his arms through the blankets, and hugs him, hugs him until he’s able to get a full breath, until the shivering stops, until he’s so achingly tired it’s all he can do to keep his eyes open.

And it is only then that Nadir releases him, and takes his ice-cold hands and rubs them, blows on them to get the blood circulating again. “Now,” his voice is soft, “tell me what happened.”

He doesn’t even have to think. It all comes spilling out in a stumble of words. Christine, pregnant in spite of their precautions. The way he walked out. How he considered an abortion but he couldn’t ask that of her. And what if the baby is like him? What if he’s sentenced something so tiny and innocent to suffer the way he has?

“And what if I die, Nadir?” And he’s crying now again, unable to keep the tears in. “What if something happens to _me_? If there’s a dissection or something goes wrong with one of my valves or another aneurysm?” _Like my father_. “I can’t leave her to raise my child alone!” _It’s bad enough that my mother had to do it but I can’t put Christine through that too. It’s not fair. It’s not right. It’s selfish to bring a child into the world with that hanging over its head._ He’s standing, throwing his hands in the air. When did he stand? He doesn’t remember. “If our baby had to grow up without knowing me all because of—of this damn thing!” And he gestures at his chest, at the sternotomy scar hidden beneath his shirt and blanket, and Nadir is paler than he’s ever seen him as he guides him to sit back down and reaches for the box of tissues on the table.

His hands are gentle as he mops away Erik’s tears, and his voice is soft.

“Don’t think like that. You can’t think like that and you certainly can’t tell Christine that. Unless you know something that I don’t, none of those things are going to happen any time soon. And it probably won’t happen at all for a good long time yet, okay?” And he pauses, looks Erik dead in the eye and incongruously Erik thinks, _I don’t think I’ve seen them look so green before_ , even as he nods and Nadir squeezes his hand. “And if it—if it did,” and Nadir’s hoarse now, as if he’s fighting back his own tears, “then we’d all be here for her. She wouldn’t have to go through it alone. And I’d—I’d tell that kid all about its ridiculous dad who jumped onto the table in the middle of the study hall and played his violin like he was possessed.” And in spite of himself Erik snorts at the memory of being collared by his old Irish teacher and getting hauled down to face the principal. Nadir gives him a watery smile, and his voice is soft as he squeezes Erik’s hand again and murmurs, “that baby would never want for anything ever, I promise.”

Erik nods, but it’s not enough to assuage all the fear in his heart, all the sheer terror. “And what if—what if it’s like me?”

“Would it really be the worst thing in the world?” He stops, lets the words sink in, and some part of Erik wants to scream _of course, of course it would be the worst thing in the world, to have caused that,_ and some part of him—some part of him churns and isn’t so sure. “That baby already has more than you ever did, because it has a dad who knows how to deal with this, who’s lived with it already. It’s got you, and you can help it more than any book ever could.”

The hollow in his chest is already easier to breathe around, and he nods, nods because Nadir is right. Of course Nadir is right. He was just being an idiot again running out, the world’s biggest stupid fool, and he swallows and nods. Nadir presses the mug of tea back into his hand, and he drinks it, bracing himself against the taste of the whiskey.

Tiredness is pulling heavy at him again, weighing him down. And he should go back to Christine, should go back to her and apologize for what he’s done, but he’s so tired, and Nadir guides him to lie down on the couch, fixes the blanket better around him.

“Get some sleep,” he murmurs. “Get some sleep, and then go to her.” But Erik is already gone.

Nadir sits beside him, perched on the edge of the couch, until he’s sure his breathing has evened out. Then he strokes back Erik’s damp hair, and sighs and reaches for his phone.

First he fires off a text to Michelle, asking her to stop in the chipper on the way home. He was supposed to make dinner, but she’ll understand if he tells her he was calming Erik down _. I’ll explain later_ , he adds at the end, and puts in two kiss emojis to keep her from worrying.

Then he pulls up Christine’s number. She was a worried wreck when she rang him earlier, and he could hear the tears in her voice when she asked him to keep an eye out for Erik. He’d call her now, but it might wake the afore-mentioned Erik who always crashes when he panics and was the same even twenty years ago. _I’ve got him_ , he types out. _He was in a state but he’s calmed down and sleeping now. I’ll take him home when he wakes._

The reply beeps in thirty seconds after he sends it. _Thank you,_ and his finger hesitates a moment before he resolves to type out one last message. _Congratulations on the news. Don’t worry about him_.


	3. 3

He wakes, and he has barely blinked his eyes open when Nadir is there with tea full of sugar and containing milk in name only. He takes a sip and everything drifts back to him, piece by piece. Christine pregnant, him leaving in a panic, snick of the door closing behind him, pouring rain, the terrible, chill thought of if he dies, of if the baby inherits his condition, Nadir’s firm voice of reason.

Christine, carrying a baby, that’s his. That’s _theirs_.

A _baby._

Will it (he, or she) have his eyes? Or will those eyes be Christine’s beautiful blue?

It’s the first coherent thought that comes and his brain latches onto it. His mother has blue eyes. But his father had the same gold-hazel, the same mysterious colour that he does (that Al does, though his are more brown than hazel, as if they’re a signal to the world that he does not carry this dread condition). And if he inherited his eyes off his father, then the balance of probability is that his own child will inherit his eyes too.

Or, maybe not. It is to a struggle to remember his sixth-year biology classes, how dominance and inheritance works. Feeling comes back to his fingertips as he puzzles it out. His mother has blue eyes, so he must have a copy of the gene for blue eyes though his own are gold-hazel. Gold-hazel then must be dominant, and if he remembers right how this works then, in view of Christine’s blue eyes, their child has a fifty percent chance of inheriting blue eyes.

It’s probably more complicated than he remembers, but he hopes, dear God he hopes, that that half chance will win out.

An impossible wave of feeling swells inside of his chest, forces the breath out of his lungs. Boy, girl, doesn’t matter. Gold-hazel or blue eyes, doesn’t matter. His condition or not, none of it matters. All that matters is that this is his child. His, made up of his blood and Christine’s and all because of their love, and tears spring to his eyes, and he aches to go home, to take her in his arms and kiss her and promise that he will always be there for her, always, for her and their baby. Always. With every breath that he draws and every beat of his heart.

His eyes meet Nadir’s, and he nods. “I’m going home.”

Nadir nods back. “I’ll drive you.”

It’s only a seven minute walk, but at least if Nadir drives, nobody will be able to see his face, and the thought is a small comfort as he settles into the car.

He is home almost before he knows it, and Nadir squeezes his hand reassuringly. “She won’t kill you.”

Erik musters a weak smile, recognising it for the attempt at humour that it is even as sickness roils deep in his stomach, and squeezes his hand back. He climbs out of the car, back cracking straight and knees creaking. His breath stutters as he walks up to the house, stands and listens to the crunch of Nadir’s wheels on the gravel as he braces himself.

And then, heart lurching, he opens the door.

The house is quiet, still, and for one moment he thinks Christine might have left, might have gathered her things and walked out and his throat tightens but he would not blame her if she had. He behaved abominably. If she left it would be only her right.

But no. Her car is the driveway. She must be here.

And he swallows as he eases the door closed.

She’s in the sitting room. He can hear the radio, turned down low, despairing tones of Mumford and Sons reaching his ears ( _…are you afraid? How ever could you not be? In this rosy light…)_ She’s probably reading, waiting for him to come back. And his heart pounds thinking of what he’s done to her, how his panic must have hurt her, upset her.

_…and as you leave, I won’t hold you back beloved…_

Oh God but he’s fucked up so badly.

He takes another deep breath to try and steady himself, and flexes his fingers.

And then he walks into the sitting room.

She’s lying on the couch, a book propped open on her belly. _Doc_ , that she only read to tease John Henry over, _help me sing the story of, a various-minded vagabond_. It was only a couple of months since that first fateful date at the coffeeshop, and only read it so she could “wipe the smug look off that bastard’s face” and insisted she could not be disturbed until she had it finished. Erik sat up all night, wrapped in duvets in his room, bingeing old Harry Potter resurrection fics with necromancy and dark magic and questionable applications of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth, waiting for her text to say she was done to okay the buying of their tickets to see Les Mis, and when it finally came he’d nodded off, and the beep of the alert woke him.

The thought comes, unbidden, someday he can tell their baby about those early days, about teasing John Henry and re-reading fics he loved when he was thirteen and a ball of angst, and going to see Les Mis and the knowing look Christine gave him when Enjolras came on stage (though he will leave out the bit about how she leaned over and kissed his cheek just to make him blush, and whispered that she wished she could have seen him play it when he was fifteen, and afterwards he sang 'Red and Black' as he carried her to bed.)

“Christine.” Her name is the barest breath from his lips, and she tilts the book back, just enough for her eyes to meet his, blue and cold as ice. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

She purses her lips, and his heart stalls, fear swooping through him that she might send him away, and he would go if it would appease her, if it would make her happy in any way, but then her eyes water, and he is at her side, kneeling, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. “I’ll be here,” he whispers, voice thick with his own tears. “I’ll be here, I promise. For you and the baby. I won’t leave you, I won’t…”

And on he whispers, as her face crumples, and he bows his head and kisses her, eases the book from her grasp and wraps his arms around her, pulls her as close as he dares.

(What if he hugs her too tight and hurts the baby? And a fresh thrill of fear runs through him.)

Mumford is still making his declarations. _…I will be yours and you will be mine, ever our lives entwined…_

“We’ll get through this,” the words are so soft Erik is barely aware he is speaking them, barely aware they exist in the air and not just in his mind, and Christine nuzzles into his chest, “we’ll get through this, I promise.”

* * *

“There’s testing they can do,” she whispers the next morning as they lie together in bed. “Genetic testing when the baby is—before it’s born. So we know if it has—”

There’s no need for her to finish. “If it has what I have.”

She nods against him, and he smooths back her hair, brushes his lips against her forehead as she goes on. “They can take cells from the placenta by—with—down at my—my cervix.”

He would much rather _not_ know how they would go about that, though he can only imagine it’s uncomfortable. “It’d be painful.”

“Mhmm.” Her thumb strokes the inside of his wrist, fingers curling tighter around it, right over his pulse. “Or if—if we waited a few weeks longer they can—there’s amniocentesis. They can pass a needle in through my belly and—and test the amniotic fluid.”

Odds are it’s a perfectly safe procedure, but the thought of it makes him shudder. “I’m not sure pointing a long needle at our baby is the best first impression.”

She huffs, as if she might chuckle. “Don’t you want to know if—if she might—” she takes his hand, and presses it against her belly, and he inhales sharply. In there, somewhere in there, is the most precious thing in the world.

“And what would we do if she did? Would you—do you want to—” _to have an abortion,_ but the word catches in his throat.

She takes a shuddering breath. “I don’t want—I’d rather not—would you? Want to? If you knew?”

 _I thought about it…I don’t know…no…I don’t…_ Nadir comes back to him. _Would it really be the worst thing in the world?_

“I want to keep her.” The resolution is clear in his voice, and he knows it’s true, knows he could never make any other choice, could feel any other way than this. “Whether or not she’s like me. I want her.”

“I want her too.” Christine’s voice is faint, but it’s enough. It’s more than enough, and relief floods through him.

It’s the first time he’s able to breathe since she told him the news.

* * *

It’s three days before they tell their families. Three days, as if a wait will make the words easier to utter, easier to comprehend. He goes with her to tell Lilly, the closest thing to a mother she’s ever known, and Lilly pulls them both into her arms, kisses their cheeks and cries and kisses them again and tells them how wonderful it is, how she’s so happy for them, and then she makes them sit down and gives them tea and makes them tell her everything they know.

It gives Erik the resolve to ring his mother down in Sligo, and he does it as soon as they get home, Christine squeezing his hand as he dials the number, before she goes to put the kettle on. His mother’s voice on the other end of the line makes his heart clench, and part of him wants to delay saying anything about for as long as possible, as if saying the words will make it more real than it already is, and part of him wants to get it over with as quickly as possible, and it is that part that wins out. He says he has some news, and the sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line makes him curse himself for saying that because of course, of course his mother fears the worst for him.

When he tells her that they are expecting a baby, the pause drags on, and just when fresh fear looms in his chest she whispers, the tears clear in her voice, “that’s wonderful news,” and he cannot fight his own tears back.

She gets the first train up to see them, and he meets her at the station. And his mother, his wonderful mother, who raised him alone but for Uncle Al who could only help out so much, his mother who made her own sacrifices so that he would never go without, who was reluctant to become involved with any man even years after his father’s death, until he told her, with all the firmness that his ten year old self could muster, that he did not want her to be sad, his mother pushes through the turnstile and runs to him, and pulls him into her arms.

“I’m so happy for you,” she whispers, “so happy.”

Bill and Al come behind her, slower and smiling, and even at a distance Erik can see the tears in their eyes. And then they are beside them, and Bill claps Erik on the shoulder.

“I’m so proud,” he whispers, and the words are simple, but they carry the validation of his stepfather and Erik tears up again, but when it is Al who pulls him in for a hug, Uncle Al who is all he has left of his father’s family, then the tears spill over and for a the first time since Christine told him the news, he laughs.


	4. 4

Erik goes with her to every test, every scan, every appointment. He reads the books and pushes his squeamishness aside, and muses over the things he’s read while talking to Nadir until it gets to the point that Nadir threatens to gag him. Or at the very least never speak to him again. Then he talks to his mother, and asks her more questions than he ever thought he’d have on the subject, and not even hearing about his own birth in graphic detail puts him off for long.

(Though it does cause him to double-take, and he doesn’t ask as many questions after that, which he suspects is the reason she went into so much detail.)

“If you and Dad had known,” he asks, voice soft, one night when she is visiting and Christine has gone to bed. More and more he has been thinking about his father lately, the tall shadow that stars in his earliest memories, that he knows only from photographs and stories and a collection of videos, and whose music he absorbed through his childhood, whose voice is a cadence he sometimes catches on the breeze, whose ancient guitar lives tucked away in his study. “If you had known about his condition, and what—what was going to happen, would you…” It’s difficult to frame the words, to piece them together even though they are a feeling that lives low in his gut, a worry and a wonder.

“Would we have still wanted you?” His mother’s voice is low, and when he nods, not trusting himself to speak, she reaches over and squeezes his hand. “Of course we would have.” She swallows, and blinks rapidly. “He loved you, Erik, and he swore that you were the best thing that ever happened to him.” She gives him a watery smile. “He loved you so very much.”

The tears sting his eyes, prickle and burn and when they spill over he doesn’t fight them, just lets them come and tries to breathe around the tightness in his throat. His mother’s arms are warm as she draws him, and when he presses his face into his jumper and her lips brush his hair, he gasps and for a moment, one tiny moment, hears that wisp of a remembered voice in his ear.

* * *

It is early September when Christine feels the first flutter of movement in her belly. Things have been easy, uncomplicated, and sometimes Erik is relieved, is endlessly grateful over it, and sometimes his breath sticks in his throat and he waits for the other shoe to drop, waits for the veil to be pulled back and the great underlying nightmare to be relieved. Those times he stays tighter to her side, traces his fingers over the back of her hand as if to remind himself that she is here, that she is well and their baby is too and this will work out, he has nothing to fear.

(His efforts only work sometimes.)

(The other times he swallows and musters a weak smile for her, and thanks God that she cannot read his mind.)

It happens one evening. They are sitting in sipping tea, him tuning his violin, her flicking through a module descriptor, when she gasps. At first he’s not sure he’s heard it, but then she gasps again and sets the paper down, a grimace twisting her lips, and he feels the blood drain from his face as he rushes to her side, violin abandoned on the table. “What is it? What’s wrong?” The words come in a tumble, and he doesn’t notice until they’re already out, and she is raising his hand to her lips, that she is smiling.

“The baby’s moving.” And tears shine in her eyes.

It takes an age to register, but when it does he bundles her into his arms, and they laugh until they are hoarse.

* * *

It’s three weeks later, and he is holding her in bed, his hand resting on the soft roundness of her belly, that he feels it himself. A tiny shifting movement, something wholly of its own mind, and he gapes at her in wonder as a slow smile spreads across her face.

“Our little girl is saying hello.”

* * *

At the twenty week scan, the sonographer asks if they want to know the sex, but Erik shakes his head. “We’d like it to be a surprise.”

Besides, Christine is certain that it’s a girl. And until the baby is born, that’s good enough for Erik.

* * *

For his birthday in August, she signed his card “from Christine and baby” and joked that it was from one and a half people.

(He kissed her forehead and her lips and knelt then to kiss the bump of her belly before he gathered her in his arms, and they danced around the room, music playing low on the stereo, the card forgotten.)

For her birthday in early November, he buys her two cards. One from him, and the second, smaller one, he signs “from baby girl.”

She is more than six months along, prone to crying at the oddest things like finding the ice-cream tub half-empty or realising that her coat doesn’t button properly anymore so he drapes his own around her shoulders, and when she reads the cards she giggles with tears in her eyes, and kisses him, and it is one of the few times they are fully intimate since they found out, that he has dared to go that far.

And she insists that he has no need to worry about hurting the baby.

(He verifies it in the books afterwards, just to be sure, and decides that this is one matter that he will _not_ take to the Mommy forums.)

* * *

She finishes teaching three days before Christmas. The snow is falling outside, though it will soon turn to slush, and Erik refuses to let her walk home in case she slips. It is not often that he drives. It is in fact immensely rare, usually only a handful of times a year, but he drives today, as haltingly as if he is only learning, his heart in his throat the whole time, and helps her out of the car, and insists on holding her arm as she walks to the house, even as she protests that she is _not an invalid, thank you very much_.

But they have gotten this far, and Lord help him but Erik will not take any chances now.

Erik’s mother and Lilly cook the Christmas dinner between them, as Christine lies on the couch and laughs about being served and says, “I might have to be pregnant every year.” Even though he knows she’s only teasing, Erik feels himself pale, and Bill pushes a mug of tea into his hand, that Al gives him a knowing look over and adds a dash of whiskey to, before leaning over and whispering in his ear, “Andrew was the same,” and Erik laughs in spite of himself at the thought of his father.

By next Christmas they will (all going well) have an eleven-month old, and he feels one of the bubbles of excitement that are becoming more and more common the closer she gets to her due date. They’ll have to put the baubles higher off the floor, to keep the baby from pulling at them. Though she’ll probably be more toddler than baby by then. And there’ll be more wrapped presents under the tree, that he and Christine will have picked out together and hidden, though the baby will still be too young to believe in Santa. They’ll start the effort then, so it has time to sink in. And there will probably be many gifts from Nadir, who will treat his godfather duties with immense seriousness and insist on spoiling the baby. (Unbidden, the memory comes to mind of Nadir crying the night Erik asked him to be godfather, and then they both cried and laughed and Nadir whispered he would be honoured, and something catches in Erik’s heart again to think of it.) The baby will probably be more interested in pulling at and tearing the wrapping paper than playing with any of the toys, but that won’t matter. It’ll be perfect anyway.

He’ll video every moment.

* * *

It is not that he is not worried that the baby will inherit his condition. He is, quite frankly, absolutely terrified. But he tries not to think about it, and between composing, and his lectures, and taking care of Christine and making sure she cannot strain herself even a bit, it is only in the quiet hours of the night that he feels the check of worry at his heart. He dwells on it, on the suffering that he might have inadvertently inflicted on this innocent child, the lifetime of hospital appointments, the anxiety like his own, that he can never shake no matter how hard he tries, no matter how many good scans he has (like the one he has just before Christmas, the assurance that he will be there to see their baby born, and the next time he has the round of tests there will be a tiny precious being nestled at home in a crib waiting for him to come back). It’s always there, always in the back of his mind, and he would give anything, he would give the world (he would give his own life if it would ever make any difference, so help him Lord) to spare the precious life growing within Christine from ever knowing the pain he has.

It would torment him if he let himself think on it too much. It would straight-up just drive him mad. And when the thoughts come, circling back through his brain, he holds Christine a little tighter, and hopes that somehow, the baby might be able to feel it, and know that her father (or his) will always be there for her, to keep her from getting scared.

There’s not much that he can do, but if he can do that, it will be enough.

It will have to be.

* * *

At midnight on New Year’s Eve, they clink their glasses of apple juice and kiss, and then they retire to bed, and Erik presses play on his phone to get up the violin piece he composed and recorded just for tonight.

It plays on repeat until his battery dies, and every time he surfaces to wakefulness it’s there, soft in the background as Christine sighs against him. If he could he would stay there forever, floating between waking and sleeping, the music soft in the background and Christine sleeping against him.

Then distantly, on the brink of dreams, he feels the smallest kick against his side, and his hand slips to rest on Christine’s belly, and the kick comes again, and he smiles, and softly disentangles himself from Christine so he can lean down, and brush his lips to the round of her belly.

“And happy New Year to you too.”

* * *

Christine gets all of her exams marked and turned back in in record time, and has the last ten days of January to herself. She reads books, and listens to music, and checks and re-checks that everything is as it should be. And it is, because she has checked it all a hundred times, and after Erik and Nadir messed up the putting together of the cot, John Henry came in and saved the day and called them both a pair of idiots.

But the cot is perfect now. And there are all the tiny baby clothes (how could they fit anything other than a doll?), brand new bottles, a breast pump, a steriliser, packs of nappies and wipes and powders and creams, and baby shampoo and body wash, several rattles and a mobile to hang over the cot that plays a little tune, and a playmat and a pram and more. Everything that they could ever want or need they have.

Who ever knew that a baby could need so much stuff?

Christine checks her maternity bag ten times a day. And Erik takes breaks from marking his own papers to massage her feet and rub oil into her belly and bring her tea and rub her back. And he rests his hand to feel the baby kick, and kisses her belly and sings soft and low, as if through the womb and the amniotic fluid, the baby might be able to hear him, might learn his voice to know it in the world.

This baby will know music. Erik will make sure of it. Whether or not she will have any musical talent remains to be seen and he does not particularly care, but their baby will be surrounded by music every day of her life.

He gets the last of the papers marked, and finishes a special composition, and curling his hand around Christine’s, settles in to wait.

* * *

It is the shifting beside him that stirs Erik from a doze, and in that place between waking and sleeping, for one heart-stopping moment he thinks it might be Time, thinks that this might be It, that this might be the night when he has to rush from bed and gather their things and ring Nadir to get them to the hospital.

Then Christine stills his hand as he reaches for his phone, and it dawns on him that no, tonight is _not_ the night.

His relief is tinged in disappointment.

“False alarm?” His voice is hoarse from the bit of sleep he did get.

“Sorry.” She sighs and lets go of his hand, wriggling to get more comfortable. “Your demon offspring is raising a fuss.”

He huffs a laugh. “ _Our_ demon offspring. You did have some involvement.”

“Our demon offspring.” There’s a trace of a smile in her voice that he doesn’t need the light to see. “I wish I could sleep.” She presses herself to him, and he wraps an arm around her, lays his hand on her belly. He can feel only the very slightest fluttering inside of her, almost nothing, and if he didn’t know it was there he wouldn’t feel it. But of course she can feel it, she can feel everything that that little baby does.

That little baby who’s supposed to be in their arms any day now.

“She’s just restless to be out in the world.”

Christine nuzzles into him. “She’s not the only one who’s restless.” She cracks a yawn, and he trails his hand back up, twines his fingers with her hair. Her forehead is cool beneath his lips when he kisses her. “I think she’s settling now though.”

“Good. Her mama needs to rest.”

“I think she just wanted her daddy to know she can’t wait to meet him.”

“Well the next time she wakes you I’ll read her German poetry.”

“Erik! You can’t threaten our baby with Rilke already. I thought you’d at least start with Wordsworth if you want to put her to sleep.”

“The very mention of that man is too exhausting for words.”

And it is their teasing, in the end, that eases them both to sleep.


	5. 5

The labour pains come in the dead of night. Erik wakes to Christine shaking him, whispering in his ear that the contractions have started. It takes him a moment to realise exactly where he is, to realise he is, in fact, _awake,_ and when he does panic washes over him but he swallows to get it under control.

She’s already dressed, face pale and hands fidgeting, mouth a tight line, and he knows she waited to wake him until she was ready, and when she adds “Nadir is on his way” it’s confirmed for him, and he’s relieved that they arranged this plan weeks ago to save him from driving.

He pulls on the first shirt and jeans he finds, buckles his belt even as he steps into his shoes and puts on his mask and grabs his coat and her bag and checks he has his wallet and that his phone is charged as he helps her to the door, praying that she doesn’t notice how hard he’s trembling. And even now she’s insisting that she can manage fine, that she’s not an invalid and he should get a scarf, but under her words he can hear the current of worry that sets his teeth on edge so he puts on his scarf to humour her. And then they are out in the cool air, and she hisses as a contraction hits her. He balances her, tries to remember what the classes he went to said about breathing techniques, and then Nadir is braking hard in the driveway and throwing the door open.

The drive to the hospital is a blur, though Nadir drives at a reasonable speed at Christine’s own insistence. It is more that Erik’s heart is pounding so fast that he can’t take it in, and it’s simultaneously taking too long and quicker than he dares to think. Nadir reaches over to open the glove compartment, and there are the emergency bottles of his medication. Erik pockets them so he doesn’t forget to take them later, and Nadir nods at him in the rearview mirror. Then Christine is squeezing his hand again, nails biting into his palm, her face tight with pain.

They get to the hospital, and get her admitted, and Nadir kisses her on the cheek, and hugs Erik. “Call me the moment there’s any news, okay? I’ll ring your mother and tell Lilly. You have your phone charger?” And when Erik nods that yes he has his charger, words all clogged in his throat, Nadir hugs him again, and whispers, “she’ll be fine, and the baby’ll be fine, you’ll all be fine”, and then he is gone, and Erik is following Christine up to her room.

* * *

It takes hours until she’s ready to go to the delivery room. Hours in which he sings to her, and recites half-remembered scraps of poetry, and charges his phone so he can play her his music, and brings her ice chips, and rubs her shoulders and tells her how much he loves her, how proud he is of her. When she frets and panics he bites his tongue and forces a smile and assures her that everything will be all right even as he tries to believe it himself, and when she cries, “I’m not ready for her to be out in the world” he hugs her as tight as he dares and promises her that she’s more ready than she thinks, that they both are and, “when we have her, none of this terror will matter. Remember all your calls to Mum?” And there were many of them, so many calls to his mother, asking about every little thing, because Christine has never been around a baby much, and Lilly never had a child of her own, never looked after a baby, so even though it’s been so long since Erik himself was small, his mother has been the fountain of steadiness for them, and it’s his own idea to ring her now, for the sake of them all.

When the call ends, Christine is staunch, her face set, and she rings Lilly as Erik drinks tea and paces, stretching stiff muscles and kneading aching ones and sternly ordering his bones to behave themselves and not start complaining now. He briefly contemplates running out and finding the fortune-teller Nadir dragged him to all those months ago before he ever found out, and asking her how it turns out, asking her to be the impartial outside voice that will tell him he has nothing to worry about, but the woman will be long gone by now and he would never find her however he searched, doesn’t even remember a name, so in the heat of the moment he resolves to buy a deck of tarot cards, but he has no idea where to even begin to look and then Christine is off the phone and her jaw is tight, hand reaching for his again, and the wild thought flies away, replaced by a sudden giddiness that _this_ is _it_ , Christine is having his baby, the time is here, and he’s crying and laughing and then she’s crying and laughing and they’re wrecks together.

A contraction comes, sharper than before, silences their laughter, and after that they get down to business.

The midwife declares that she’s dilated enough, and the obstetrician agrees, and they are off to the delivery room and Christine insists he take his mask off so his face doesn’t chafe and get raw. He gives in to her even though every one of his nerves screams to refuse, and knows he couldn’t put the make-up on even if he did have it with him because he’d just sweat it off. If he was anxious before, he’s chewing the inside of his cheek now, blood metallic on his tongue, and he smiles weakly at Christine before he climbs onto the bed behind her so she can lean back into him, and she squeezes his hands so hard his knuckles burn and throb, and he thanks God for paternity leave because it’s going to be days before he’ll be able to play without pain.

But in the end, none of the pain matters, none of the fear matters, all of it fades away into the background, into part of the history of this day. It is late evening when the most glorious thin wail breaks the air, and tears spring to his eyes, and Christine is sobbing, and over her shoulder he sees the baby being set on the round of her belly, sees Christine’s pale fingers brushing damp dark hair, and he doesn’t think to ask if it’s a boy or a girl because he’s kissing Christine’s cheek and the baby is wet beneath his fingertips, still crying as the midwife wraps it in a white towel and smiles at them and promises to be back in a minute. As she turns her back on them, Erik sees tiny fists flailing in the air, eyes screwed shut in a little red face, and he swears his heart stalls, swears that for a moment he leaves his body behind. In the next breath the world rights itself, comes back too loud and too bright, Christine’s fingers wrapped tight around his the only thing keeping him from running out to feel the air cold on his face.

He swallows, and slips out from behind her. She is pale and flushed, hair tangled and face streaked with tears, and if he could he would press her to him forever, but they have a baby now, a _baby_ , and it’s thanks to her hard work, thanks to all she’s put herself through, and he kisses her and kisses her, her forehead, her hair, her cheeks, her hands, and dries the sweat and tears from her face, and fresh tears well up as he kisses her again, though whether they are his or hers that are wet on his face it’s impossible to tell.

Then the midwife is back with the baby, who’s still whimpering and hiccoughing, but dry now and clean and wrapped in a little yellow blanket, a tiny soft pink hat tucked over that dark hair. Erik reaches out without thinking about it, heart crying to take that precious bundle in his arms _now_ and the midwife smiles as she passes it to him.

“Your daughter,” she says, and his breath catches as she adjusts his hands under the most precious little girl in the whole world.

So small. God she’s so small and light, and for a fleeting moment he is terrified he will break her, terrified this tiny creature will fall apart in his arms, and he draws her tighter to him.

“Hello,” he croaks, tears blurring his vision as he looks down into that little face, searches it for fissures, for cracks, for a deformity like his, but all he finds is a wrinkled face, just as the books said he would, said he should, and a knot loosens in his heart.

He bows his head, and presses a kiss to her delicate little forehead ( _her,_ his _daughter,_ he has a _daughter_ ), and he doesn’t fight the grin that spreads onto his face as he turns and transfers her carefully, slowly, to Christine’s waiting arms.

Christine whimpers, still crying as she takes her, and cradles her close, and then her eyes raise to meet Erik’s, just for a moment, as their baby girl presses herself closer into her mother, and that brief gaze is filled with so much love, so much gratitude, it takes his breath away.

* * *

Later there will testing, will be examinations (and it will come back positive, that their baby girl carries the same mutation in her genes as her father, has the same condition, but that is weeks away yet, and by then they are ready for it, have reconciled themselves to the likelihood of the situation and so Erik will not break down but he will drink a shot of whiskey and have to stand out under the stars for a little while.)

Later there will be photos sent around, to two grandmothers and a grandfather and a granduncle, and to the godfather who has barely put his phone down all day waiting for the news and had to walk out of an important meeting so he could compose himself and get on with the business at hand, and to the friends who are the closest things in the world to aunts and uncles. And congratulations will follow from colleagues, and e-mails to each of them from their students once word gets out why Erik has suddenly stopped teaching (just for a few weeks). And a picture will make its way to Twitter to immortalise this day, this wondrous occasion, of a tiny hand peeking out of a pink sleeve, clinging to a long, thin finger.

Later there will be music composed and arias sung and poetry recited, and cards written out.

And later there will be a name, finally, definitively, decided on. An Irish name, dainty and delicate, because there was a moratorium put on historical figures and musicians and names that are the titles of songs, and, after a hushed debate one night, on the names of dead family members.

(Clíodhna. Clíodhna Aoife Delafontaine. For a goddess of love and beauty, and a princess of Leinster.)

But all of that is in the future. Hours and days away yet. And for now all Erik can do is sit on the edge of the bed, an arm around Christine’s shoulders, his baby daughter’s fingers wrapped tightly around one of his, Christine leaned into him as their little girl sleeps, full and warm and surrounded by love, and he thinks of a day when Nadir convinced him to visit a fortune teller, remembers the cards laid out before her, and knows that though he panicked at the time, he would never trade these moments for anything else in the world.


End file.
